


That Stormy Night

by Ozie



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:48:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26663188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozie/pseuds/Ozie
Summary: Please bear in mind that this is the first draft and that I will probably be sorting it all out (or editing it) later on. Comments on what you liked/disliked would be helpful for when I do get round to editing. Hope you enjoy it!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 2





	That Stormy Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please bear in mind that this is the first draft and that I will probably be sorting it all out (or editing it) later on. Comments on what you liked/disliked would be helpful for when I do get round to editing. Hope you enjoy it!

Aziraphale pouted at the tower of books littering the back room of his bookshop. The more he gathered, merely for curiosity’s sake if anything, the less shelf space he had and so the more books he had to sell. He hated selling his books. They meant too much to him.  
Looking around the back room, Aziraphale picked up the first book on the pile. The Bible. Another variant, this one with a leather back cover and gold words etched into the front. Bibles seemed to be getting ever more popular nowadays, for whatever reason. Whether it was Heaven’s doing, or just humanity’s growing interest in his existence, he could not tell.  
It slipped onto the nearest shelf with relative ease, give or take the shuffling of a couple of books. At this point, Aziraphale had an entire bookcase dedicated to bibles, both accurate and not, not that many of them were accurate. The only downside to that was, even that bookcase was now full.  
A miracle danced on the tips of his fingers. One that would grant him even more space, even more books to hoard. It only took a sharp pang behind his skull to stop him.  
Aziraphale grunted and rubbed his temples, glaring at the lack of space in his shop. “Bother.”  
People chattered beyond the walls cutting the back room off from the rest of the shop, the bell above the door tinkling away their comings and goings. Ever since he started selling more books to free up space, more people came, despite his best efforts to keep them away. The usual horrid book smells, the glaring, did not stop them from flooding the first floor of his shop.  
Aziraphale glanced at the pile, or more specifically, at the book on top. Book of Ezekiel, the book that claimed angels such as himself looked like a couple of floating rings covered in eyes. How he came across this book, Aziraphale was not entirely certain, though at least he did not have it in his collection already.  
It was merely a matter of where to put it without destroying it.  
Wandering the length of the back room, Aziraphale spied every nook and cranny in the shelves for any spare space. He stopped at the second shelf across from the left and peered into the darkness, and the yellow orbs staring back at him.  
Azirphale sighed despite the small smile appearing on his face. “Crowley, dear, we’ve talked about this.”  
Crowley slithered out from between two books and hissed, as was his way of communicating or at least attempting to.  
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at him. “You know I can’t understand you when you’re hissing at me, my dear.”  
Disdain flashed in the serpent’s eyes, but nevertheless, he slithered off the edge of the bookshelf and plopped himself on the floor. It took the matter of a second for him to turn back into his given human form.  
The first thing Aziraphale noticed was the spot of pink on Crowley’s lapel.  
Crowley brushed some imaginary dust from his shoulders and fixed his tie, as he so wanted to call it. “As I was saying—”  
“Oh,” Aziraphale said, smiling, his finger prodding the pink spot, “finally a dash of colour?”  
Crowley started and stared down at his jacket. Growling something under his breath, he wiped his hand over it, leaving behind not even a speck. “’S’was just helping some kids.”  
“You?”  
“Yeah, me.” Crowley pouted, perching himself on the only desk in the room. “Can’t see why you can’t do it. Ain’t you s’posed to be ethereal?”  
“But you love children, my dear,” Aziraphale said as he picked up the Breeches Bible, one of the many books strewn across the floor. “I couldn’t possibly take that opportunity from you.”  
“Wouldn’t say love,” Crowley muttered.  
Aziraphale hummed, a smile plastered across his face. He set the book down next to Crowley and patted his knee. “I would.”  
Crowley grumbled. Aziraphale chuckled. He had half-expected Crowley to shove him against the wall again, demand he take it back, but when it came to children, it was en entirely different argument. There was no denying he loved kids.  
“How were they?” Aziraphale asked, heading back to the pile and rifling through for no reason in particular. “The children?”  
“Fine. Wanted to paint me, for some reason.”  
“They must have thought you could do with a bit of pink.”  
“Probably.” The floorboards behind Aziraphale creaked. “Got any wine left?”  
Aziraphale frowned, turning back to Crowley, who ran his fingers over the edges of numerous books in search of his secret wine stash. “Crowley, dear, it’s only one in the afternoon.”  
“Yup, well, I want some.”  
“Not while customers are here, we’ve discussed this.”  
Crowley pouted. “Can’t you scare ‘em off or, I dunno, somethin’?”  
“You think I haven’t tried, dear boy?” Aziraphale made his way past the growing piles of books and eased himself into the only armchair in the room. “Unfortunately, business is booming.”  
“So… what?”  
“So, you can’t have any of my wine. Not yet.”  
Crowley huffed. He did not try to argue, though. Instead, he sauntered over to the sofa opposite Aziraphale and flopped onto it. “You just hiding back here, then?”  
“I wouldn’t say hiding,” Aziraphale said, grimacing. “More… evading.”  
“Same difference, innit?”  
“Not really, dear.”  
Crowley raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale, then at the door to the backroom. The blind was closed, Aziraphale had made sure of it, leaving them in almost-complete privacy. The only disturbance was the near-constant flow of customers coming into the shop. Aziraphale did not want to know how many miracles it took to keep most of those poor books from getting ruined.  
“Not even just a glass?”  
Aziraphale shook his head. “Unfortunately not.”  
“For Sa—somebo—ngk.” Crowley sunk further into the sofa, burying himself in the washed-out green throw over Aziraphale had, indeed, thrown over it. “Wish time could go faster.”  
“Whatever’s made you so miserable?” Aziraphale asked, his brows knitting together in concern. “Surely you enjoyed your time with—”  
“It’s not them, angel. Were the highlight of my day, those kids.”  
“Then what’s the matter?”  
Aziraphale could almost see the shadows in Crowley’s eyes as he sat up, a haunted expression on his face, the usual sarcastic feeling he gave off ebbing away into cold indifference.  
“I ran into Beelzebub.”  
If Aziraphale had a drink on him, he was certain he would have choked. He settled for a sharp inhale. “You’re certain it was them?”  
“Positive, angel,” Crowley said. “I’d recognise their face and stench anywhere. Surprised no one else noticed.”  
“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale fiddled with the ring on his pinkie. “That’s far from pleasant news.”  
“You think?”  
Aziraphale shot up from his chair. The door to the backroom swung open and in washed the endless chatter of the civilians of Soho. Aziraphale rarely ever did this, he would always at least indulge in the conversations of the general public, but sometimes other matters were more important, and at this moment in time, that was Beelzebub.  
“I apologise sincerely, everyone,” Aziraphale began, closing the door behind him, “but you must go. There’s been an emergency I need to take care of.”  
Many, much to Aziraphale’s surprise, left without so much as a complaint, dropping their books off on shelves and the tables beside the doors. He could hear one or two grumbles amongst the dying whispers, but nothing too concerning.  
As the last customer left, Aziraphale closed the door and locked it, flipping the sign to CLOSED and closing all the blinds and curtains. The bookshop fell into darkness, leaving only the lamps and lights to light the bookshelves.  
Crowley slunk into the bookshop and raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale. “That emptied quick.”  
“They do as you say if you’re nice enough, dearest,” Aziraphale said, smiling sweetly despite the twinge of fear pinching his nerves. “Where did you see Beelzebub, sorry?”  
“Not far from my apartment.” Crowley shoved his hands—or most of them—into his pockets. “Can’t tell if they saw me or not.”  
Aziraphale opened his mouth to ask another question, to ask anything that came to mind, but that same sharp pain cut him off. It took everything in him not to grunt.  
“Angel, you alright?”  
“I’m fine, dear,” Aziraphale said, waving his hand. “I think you should stay here, however.”  
Crowley’s eyes widened, his slit irises thinning. “You what?”  
“You should stay here, Crowley.” Aziraphale fiddled with his ring again and began to pace the length of the bookshop. “If Beelzebub did see you, there’s a chance they could go for you.”  
“I’m tougher than I look—”  
“Crowley, dear, it’s not about how tough you might be, it’s that Beelzebub may know you live there.” Aziraphale stopped and stared into the glass circle in the ceiling, just over where his little summoning circle was, hidden beneath the rug. “It’s not safe.”  
“Angel,” Crowley said, his voice unusually soft, “They know I live there anyway, and besides, you don’t have space.”  
“Oh, poppycock.” Aziraphale turned to Crowley, his hands clasped behind his back. “I can find some for you.”  
Crowley quirked his eyebrow once more. “It’ll just put you in danger, and I ain’t havin’ that.”  
“So what, you’d much rather you end up in a bath full of holy water again?”  
“Ngk—that's not the point—”  
Aziraphale narrowed his gaze and closed the distance between the two of them until they stood only a few centimetres apart. “You’re staying here, dear boy, and there’s no debate to be had about that.”  
Crowley frowned, though made no arguments. Satisfied, Aziraphale’s smile returned, and he clasped a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “I know it seems unfair, dear, but you really will be safer here.”  
“I know,” Crowley said. “But—”  
“Crowley—”  
“—I have my own protection, Azi.”  
Azi. The nickname, a rarely used one, set his mind racing. Being called anything other than angel or Aziraphale always did that to him.  
“I’m not gonna stay here, angel,” Crowley stated, hand on the doorknob, sunglasses in the other. “I’d love to, but you’ve got your own shit to deal with.”  
Aziraphale wanted to argue. He wished he could change his mind somehow, tempt him into staying one night, then another, but it seemed even that was out of the question.  
“Then at least stay for that wine you were begging for, hmm? The one you essentially made me empty the shop for.”  
“Oi, Beelzebub was important!”  
“Even so,” Aziraphale said, making his way over to his little cabinet in the back, “you should try this Chateauneuf de Pas!”  
“Haven’t I tried it already?”  
“Not this one, you haven’t.”  
Crowley sniffed from beside the door. Aziraphale plucked one of the many bottles of wine he had from the cupboard and stared into his reflection. Was it normal for an angel to have eyebags, he wondered.  
“So, how much we drinkin’?” Crowley asked, perching on the arm of the sofa. “A little? A lot?”  
“How’s a few bottles?” Aziraphale inquired, a grin on his face. “What I wouldn’t do to have an excuse to buy more.”  
“You dirty sinner.”  
Aziraphale placed the bottles on the coffee table between them and grabbed a couple of glasses. He could feel Crowley watching his every move. For whatever reason, his gaze made his skin tingle.  
“Is something the matter, dear?” Aziraphale asked, pouring the two of them a glass of wine. “Other than Beelzebub, of course.”  
It took Crowley a little bit to respond, a minute at most. “Yeah, actually.”  
Aziraphale stopped pushing the cork back into the bottle and glanced back at Crowley, his concern returning in full force. “And that is?”  
“You.”  
Starting, Aziraphale set the bottle down. He did not bother picking up the glasses. “Have I—?”  
“I-it’s not because of anything you’ve done,” Crowley rushed in to say, grimacing. “It’s just…well, you aren’t miracling anything. Bit off of you, really.”  
“Oh, that.” Aziraphale chuckled, the sound about as dead as some of these books, and plucked his glass from the table. “Thought I could do with the exercise, really. Can’t be too chubby, can we?”  
Crowley leant back against the sofa without even touching his wine. “Angel, you’ve never cared about your weight. Come on, why aren’t you?”  
“Why aren’t I what?”  
“ _Aziraphale_.”  
“Oh, alright.” Aziraphale took a sip—or what he would tell you was a sip, even though it was more of a gulp—of his wine and put it to one side. “I’ve been saving them.”  
Crowley squinted at him. “For wot? You don’t need to.”  
“I merely haven’t found any use for them, as of late.”  
That was not strictly true. Aziraphale had plenty of need for them. He could have miracled himself some more Chateauneuf de Pas instead of buying them, he could have miracled himself some light rather than relying on the electrics of his ancient bookshop, he could have miracled the door locked or the blinds shut. Of course, while miracles were more meant for others, he still had use for them, at least while no one needed his help. However, even now, after everything that had occurred not even a few months ago, Aziraphale could not bring himself to use more than his limit.  
Crowley stared straight into Aziraphale’s eyes. He refused to squirm in his seat and settled for downing more wine instead, the bitter taste taking his mind off of Crowley’s searching gaze.  
“Pretty sure you’re lying to me, angel,” Crowley said finally after Aziraphale had finished his second glass of wine.  
“M’n’angel, dear boy,” Aziraphale mumbled. “I can’t lie. I’ve been savin' em, and that’s that.”  
“For wot, though?”  
“Oh, for a special occasion.”  
“Special being what?”  
Aziraphale opened his mouth, hoping the words would come to him, and pointed a finger at Crowley. He still had not touched his wine, and the words did not come.  
“I’ll know when it gets here,” Aziraphale forced out after a couple of minutes. “For now, I’m quite blessed to have the time to relish in my wine and your company.”  
Crowley shook his head, a smile peeking through from behind the frown, and swiped his wine from the table. Aziraphale had already half-finished his third glass. “It better arrive soon, then, ‘cause there's no way I’m miracling stuff for you.”  
Aziraphale chuckled into his glass. “You wouldn’t be a darling for me, my dear?”  
“Nah, that’s not me. I’m not nice, remember?”  
“You’re wonderful, my dear. Absolutely stunning to match.”  
“Can it, angel.”  
Snickering, Aziraphale sipped some more of his wine. Crowley, on the other hand, finished his in one fell swoop. The silence stretched between them. It was not an uncomfortable silence, far from it, and it was not unusual for it to occur, now that neither of them had to complain about their jobs. Sure, Aziraphale still went around performing little miracles or had up until a week ago, and Crowley certainly did his little temptations, but at least they had no one to report to, now.  
“So, how’s Heaven?”  
Aziraphale spat out his wine and stared at Crowley.  
Crowley shrugged. “They been botherin’ you at all?”  
As far as Aziraphale was aware, no other angels had been hanging around the bookshop. That being said, Gabriel had a habit of entering unnoticed. “Not exactly,” Aziraphale said, setting his glass down. “Haven’t seen Gabriel since the whole Armageddon incident.”  
“No Michael or nothing?”  
“Nothing. I did think I saw Sandalphon the other day, though he wouldn’t come anywhere near here without Gabriel.”  
Crowley frowned at his glass. “Wonder why Hell’s comin’ up again, then, if Heaven’s not gonna get their hands dirty.”  
“I don’t know, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “All I know is we still need to lay low.”  
“They know we’re here, angel.”  
“True, but still. They could’ve forgotten.”  
Crowley slouched further, his frown deepening. “Doubt it, considering the stunt we pulled.”  
“Bother.” Aziraphale rubbed his eyes, then proceeded to pour himself another glass. Crowley held his glass out for another, too. “Well, is there anything else we can really do besides drink?”  
“Play along, I s’pose.” Crowley clicked his fingers. Yet another pair of sunglasses appeared in his hand. Where his other ones had gone, Aziraphale had no idea. “If they come knocking, just play dumb, that kinda thing.”  
“I doubt that would work so well on Gabriel… or the other Archangels.”  
“We'll figure it out, angel,” Crowley said, slipping on his sunglasses and finishing off his wine. “We always do.”  
“I do hope you’re right,” Aziraphale murmured with a frown, staring through the light overhead. Unfortunately, the effects of alcohol had not lasted as long as he had hoped. “I would hate to have to go back up there.”  
“Not gonna let ‘em, angel,” Crowley said with the confidence of prophets, “don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.”  
Crowley put his glass down on the coffee table and slipped off the arm of the sofa. “Think I’ll get going now, leave you to your storing an’ all that.”  
Aziraphale’s heart gave out a pang of disappointment—can you blame him for hoping Crowley would stay?—but nevertheless, Aziraphale obliged himself in leading Crowley through the bookshop and offering him the brightest smile he could muster. It was, admittedly, not as bright as usual.  
“Will you still come about tomorrow, dear boy?” Aziraphale asked, opening the door to the shop. The sky overhead glowed a deep orange, one that bled into the purple threatening to steal the light. He often forgot days were shorter during winter months. “I could use the company, considering it’s a Sunday.”  
“These humans and their weird rules,” Crowley commented, eyebrow quirked. “The Ritz?”  
Aziraphale smiled. “The Ritz it is, my dear Crowley. Oh, and—” Aziraphale glanced at the Bentley, then down the street for any suspicious movement. No flies buzzed, no feathers of pristine white dropped from the sky. “—please be safe.”  
“Would you expect ay different from me, angel?” Crowley drawled. He sauntered down to his Bentley and climbed inside, leaving Aziraphale to stare into the sky, his nails tapping on the wood of the door.


End file.
